The Last Loaf
by Here But Not For Long
Summary: An old man reflects on his final challenge, his thoughts centered on his wife. KxP


My wife sits on the couch, listless. Our granddaughter's concerned voice calls out to her, but my wife's hearing has shifted from hearing a little to hearing nothing. Her eyes, too, are not what they used to be.

Our granddaughter takes my wife's hand in her own hands, gently rubbing soothing circles. I know what she is doing. She is trying to comfort my wife in her grief, the way _I_ used to comfort my wife. I used to love feeling her small, calloused hands relax under mine. It was that sort of time that really grounded me, proving to me that I was important to my wife, special. In the early days of our marriage, I doubted myself in her eyes more than she guessed, I think. But as we grew old together, I was gradually overcome with a sense of peace and a sense of understanding. I knew, deep down, that there was little in the world that was more right than my wife and I together.

My old heart aches when I remember those times. They are lost to me now, entirely. But even before the loss was complete, things would start to pull me away from my family.

Little things. Things that, in time, my wife suffered from, too. Hearing loss. Forgetfulness. Arthritis.

Eventually, bigger things held my attentions away from my family. My old heart was failing. I had long since accepted that no man lived forever- in my youth, in fact, I had almost welcomed the prospect of passing on, if it meant my loved ones- especially my wife, though she was not my wife yet- would be safe from harm.

Age brings wisdom, however. I began to see that death would take me away from those I held dear, and that thought brought pain deeper than any physical blight ever could.

With time, I learned to really, truly love life and the joy it brought, for that very reason.

Unfortunately, life is infamous for playing little jokes on us. When I had truly embraced life, my body and mind began to dwindle away, leaving me with a grim sense that my time was nearly up. It was during that time that I held on to life and especially love with tenacious, aching fingers. I remember with astonishing clarity the last few years, months, days, moments.

Even now as I watch, I see my wife reliving those moments, days, months, years.

I long more than anything else to reach out and comfort her… To take her into my arms… To take away her pain.

But I know what will happen if I try, and that is nothing. She won't know I'm there. She won't feel the peace that I desperately crave for her to have.

Tears fill my eyes and I scrub them away impatiently. Crying won't help my wife… But I know someone who will. I make my way outside in the curious manner I have learned to travel, and I see the little girl there, right where I expect her to be. She is leaving me to my solitary grief, close enough for me to reach out and get help, but not close enough to intrude. I am more grateful for her now that ever in the past.

She looks up from the flower she was inspecting, sadness on her delicate features. She knows what I will ask, even before I do. "No, Peeta, you can't-" she tries to say, but I cut her off.

"Why?" I ask quietly, my voice overflowing with emotion and desperation. "Why?"

Her lip trembles. I immediately feel guilty and I remember that this is hard for her, too. After all, she is my sister-in-law. My family's pain is also her pain.

"You'll only scare her," she gently reminds me. Her voice quavers with her lip.

"Of course I won't!" I cry.

"Then you'll break your heart again and hers, too," she says. I look away and she gets a little bit frustrated. "Look at me, Peeta! You know it's true!"

I do know, but I can't admit it. Admitting it would close the last door I have to my wife. She tries a different tactic.

"Peeta, if we were allowed to do that, don't you think I would have done it years ago?" she asks.

The truthfulness of that statement calms me a little and breaks my heart at the same time.

"Then what can I do?" I breathe, my voice little more than a sorrowful murmur.

She frowns, and I see an idea forming on her face. "I'll be back," she says, and suddenly she is gone. There are no signs of her coming back soon, so I drift back inside to watch my wife. She has not moved, and once again I have the urge to comfort her.

I don't know how long I am there, loving my wife from afar, before I smell the sweet scent of a primrose and know that my sister-in-law has returned. I am afraid to turn and look at her- I am afraid that she will tell me that my case is hopeless.

It turns out that I don't have to look at her on my own. She comes to me.

She hesitates, then begins speaking. "There's a way," she says haltingly. But before I can completely get my hopes up, she continues. "It's not what you're thinking, though."

She knows what am I am thinking, for sure. She knows that I want- more than almost anything- to show myself to my wife so she knows that all is not lost and that we will truly meet again someday.

But what I want is not to be.

I sigh, tired. "Alright, Prim. Tell me what to do."

Prim brightens, clearly pleased that I've at last listened to reason. "Tell me something that I could give her that she would _know_ is from you." She pauses. "But Peeta… It has to be an object, and you can only do it once." She grimaces. "It took some convincing for them to let you even do this. So take a little time and think about. You know where to find me." And she is gone.

I think and think, continuing to watch my wife because I know my days of being so close to her are rapidly dwindling.

My first thought is a mockingjay. A mockingjay represents so much for us. It was the Games that brought us together to begin with. Later on- because she became _the _Mockingjay- it was determined necessary to rescue me because I was important to her.

But I know after a bit of reflection that a mockingjay is not the answer. I realize that it came to represent so many other things that ultimately, she might not see that it is from me, or worse- she might fall into a flashback as a result of seeing it. As war veterans and victims of the Games, we know only too well how easy it is to trigger a flashback.

Discarding the mockingjay idea, I move on to a new one- a dandelion. A dandelion came to resemble the embodiment of hope for my wife and I. Because of this, I warm to the idea more than the mockingjay idea, but something in me still says that it isn't the right one. After all, it would be only too easy for our granddaughter's young child to run outside and pick a duplicate of the small flower.

And the image of a little girl picking a dandelion stirs a very old memory and I know I have found my choice- bread. The bread that saved her life. The only time before I knew her that I could do something for her, after a long time of watching her from a long distance away.

I feel that she will know the bread comes from me if I make her favorite, a cheese bun. She unwittingly said so to me herself, years ago, in the first few years of our marriage. She teased me with the affectionate nickname The Boy with the Bread and told me that I made the bread best out of everyone. She said I put so much care into it that no one else could ever make it as well.

I go back out to the garden and see Prim. She silently raises and eyebrow and I tell her, "Bread!"

She smiles and my feeling that I have made the right choice is reinforced.

* * *

Prim has evidently done some pleading with the higher powers, because that night, when my beautiful wife goes up to bed, she finds two items waiting on her next to her pillow- my bread and a single, sweet-smelling primrose. My token and Prim's. Unbeknownst to my wife, we are there in the room, watching her, awaiting her reaction.

My girl stops when she sees the tokens, and ever so slowly, her hand raises to cover her mouth. Tears begin to drip down her face one by one, and for a few minutes, she only stands there. Then suddenly, she drops what she is holding and runs to the tokens with an agility that left her years ago, or so I thought. She picks up my bread and lifts it to her face, inhaling the scent and smiling. The smile has a million emotions, but prominent among them is love. Prim gently takes my hand as we continue to watch, and it is then that I realize my face is wet with tears.

Next, my wife gently sets the bread back down and picks up the primrose. She treats it much the same way as the bread. When she is finished, she picks the bread back up and clutches it to her, and suddenly, she is laughing and crying and I know that Prim and I have done our job well.

We stay how we are for a long time, Prim and I holding hands, invisible, while my wife holds onto her tokens of us. Then, she shocks both Prim and I.

"Oh, Peeta," she whispers, her eyes closed. "Prim."

I am beyond overjoyed to hear her speak, because my wife has not spoken since my death.

"I knew you'd come back to me, somehow, sometime," she continues. "I love you both so much, more than you can imagine. I miss you, too, and someday soon, Peeta, I'll find you. Nothing can stop that. And Prim, if you see our father, tell him I love him, and the same for our mother and Gale."

I am sobbing now. I break away from Prim and go to kneel by my wife. I need this more than she does, I'm discovering.

As I do this, I am struck by how much my wife has changed over the years. She never was the cold girl she thought she was, but after the Games, the war, years of marriage, and two children as well as several grandchildren, she became a softer version of herself. She learned to be affectionate and express herself in beautiful ways and I have never been more grateful to be a part of her life.

"Oh, Peeta," she repeats. "Peeta, Peeta, Peeta…" Almost as if she can sense me there in front of her, she reaches out. I take her hand, still aware that she can't feel it but way past caring.

She continues saying my name for so long that I start saying hers, too. "Katniss, Katniss, Katniss…"

And eventually, her words become slurred and her breathing evens and her tears stop, and I know she has drifted off to sleep.

And I know, somehow, that she'll be okay. She's strong, so strong- after all, she is the girl on fire. Years of life and love have not changed that.

And I'll be okay. As long as I'm Katniss's Boy with the Bread, I'll make it through whatever comes my way.

Finally tearing my eyes away from my Katniss, I turn to Prim. She wipes away her tears and, smiling, takes my hand. I can at long last pass on, knowing that someday Katniss and I will be together again.

_fin_


End file.
